Thief of Hearts
Page 17
Jean-Paul turned his collar up against the light drizzle that had begun to fall and looked the boy right in the face. He would not back down in this challenge he had made, or any hopes he had ever had of leading the boy into a different path would be irretrievably lost. “You would be wise not to make an enemy of me.”
The boy stared back at him, one eyebrow raised, quite unimpressed with his threats. “As you would be of me. And, more to the point, you would be wise not to make an enemy of the Countess. She is expecting me and will not be happy with the man who makes me late. Again.”
Metin drew his weapon and pushed the lad back with the tip of his sword so he could not get past. The boy’s insouciance made him want to turn him over his knee and paddle a sense of right and wrong into him. “Have you no shame, lying to your sister through your teeth?”
“What is my sister to you, that you should care?” There was an odd look in his eyes, as if he really cared about the answer to his question.
“Your sister is a fine woman, and I love her dearly.” He gritted his teeth. “How she came to have such a brother as you is beyond me, but for her sake I will not run you through.”
A flash of anger sparked through the boy’s eyes. “How very tolerant of you. And does my sister love you back again, or is your love yet again unrequited? Do you think she really loves you, or have you chosen another Francine for yourself?” His impish face puckered into a wicked grin as he danced just out of reach of Jean-Paul’s lunge. “Have you chosen another woman who will make use of you for as long as it pleases her to do so, and then turn you out into the cold?”
He could feel his face darken with rage at the mention of Francine. That painted whore was not fit to be mentioned alongside his Miriame. “If she does not love me now, she will one day, I swear it. I love her more than I love my own life.”
His avowal seemed to amuse the boy. “Then I suppose for her sake I will not run you through, either, much as you deserve it for delaying me.”
How could the boy drive him wild with fury every time? He would not hurt the lad, but he would teach him a lesson that he would not forget in a hurry. He would teach him not to mock his sister, or the love that he felt for her. He would teach the boy not to make fun of everything that he held dear. He would teach him not to mock what he could not understand or appreciate. With a roar of irritation, and fueled by frustration and love, he charged.
Miriame met his rush with a deliberate stoicism that she knew would just irritate him further. She was wicked, she knew, but she could not forbear to tease him when he was in such an aggravating mood. He thought she was a rascal and a scapegrace, did he? She would show him one of these days that there was more to her than a pretty, dark-haired girl in a red dress. She was a gutter rat and a fighter and a soldier, too. She had robbed more men than she could remember, and she had even killed a man – slit his throat until his life blood bubbled out of his veins. She could hold her own against any Musketeer who wanted to cross swords with her. She was who she was, and she would make no apologies for herself. If he really wanted her, he was welcome to try and catch her – but he would have to take the bad along with the good. More fool him if he had fallen in love with the pretty side of her and not seen what she kept hidden below the surface.
After a few furious rushes that she easily deflected, he made a deliberate effort to calm down again.
She didn’t like the look in his eyes when she faced him once more. They were burning bright with determination rather than with rage. She saw in him the look of the fanatic who would not let this battle go, whatever it cost him to carry it through to the end.
She doubted her would hurt her – he was not that kind of a man. He would force her to submit if he could though, and acknowledge him as the victor in their battle of wills. She steeled herself to meet his onslaught. She would not be forced into submission if she could help it.
His next pass was not as fierce, but neither did it fall so wildly. Miriame had to dodge out of the way, as slippery as the eels she used to catch on a bent hook baited with a piece of rotten meat. She was thankful now for the hours that Renouf had spent training her. She could tell she was about to need every lesson she had ever learned.
Metin harnessed his anger until he had it contained within himself, in a secure place where it could not get away and overwhelm him. He would never get the better of the boy if he were to unleash his rage. Only coolness and a clear head would allow him to win. “Will you give up the Marquise?” he said, as he came at her again.
“Why should I give her up on your say so?” the boy taunted him, trying to rile him once more. “You are nothing but one of her discarded lovers, after all.”
With an effort, he dampened down the anger he felt. The boy was nothing more than a symbol of Francine’s faithlessness. His anger was not for the boy but for Francine, for the way she had made a fool out of him, for the way she had made him dance to her tune like an Italian mummer’s puppet. She had pulled the strings, and he had danced for her.
He had loved her, but it was the love of an inexperienced young man who thinks everything is as it seems on the surface and who is flattered into a feeling he would never otherwise have dreamed of. He had fallen in love with the illusion she had created of herself, not with the real Francine. The real Francine was not worth loving – she had no heart to return the love she was given.
Still, his pride was hurt that Francine had turned him out in favor of such a youth as this one. The boy’s morals were a match for hers, that is true, but why else should she prefer such a callow youth to a man like himself? Damn it all, the boy was scarcely more than a child - too young even to grow a beard.
Francine had appealed to his vanity when she had first made love to him. Now his vanity was hurt that she chose to make love to another, and to one, what’s more, who was far his inferior in every way. Including in a fight. He would prove that once and for all right here and now.
He parried one of the boy’s blows successfully and thrust back at him so that the lad had to sidestep clumsily to avoid his blade. “Think you that you will last any longer by her side?” he taunted the boy in his turn. “You have nothing to offer her that she wants. She will soon tire of showering gifts on one who cannot give her anything in return.”
“Quite likely,” the boy replied, his breath beginning to come faster as he started to tire. “The difference between us is that I shall be pleased to go when the time comes, while you were tossed out of doors like a dog with the mange, begging and whimpering for a reprieve. That must have hurt your pride, did it not, Monsieur Musketeer?"
He would hurt more than the boy’s pride if the lad did not cease taunting him. “I will not give you the opportunity to be tossed out. You promised your sister that you would leave Francine be. I am here to hold you to that promise.”
The boy laughed in his face. “You will be a busy man indeed, if you think of trying to protect Miriame’s honor as you protect Francine’s. There is not so much difference between them as you might think.”
By God, but that was too much for him to take. He would teach the boy a lesson that would stay with him for a very long time.
He flicked his sword through the boy’s defenses and scored a long shallow cut down his arm. First blood to him.
The boy swore at the sight of his blood dripping on to the cobblestones and lunged at him furiously.
He easily parried the blow. “It would be wiser for you not to insult your sister in my presence.”
“What do you know of my sister after all? That she is pretty? She may be ten times the whore that your precious Francine is and you would never know.”
He had been patient up until now, but enough was enough. It was time to end this farce. He battered the boy with thrust after thrust until his back was up against the wall. He gave his sword an expert flick, and the boy’s sword clattered uselessly to the cobbles. “Give me one good reason why I should not kill you,” he said, the point of his sword resting on the boy’s throat.
It was almost as if the boy was daring him to do his worst. “What care I for her disappointment? She will find herself another man to gull before your body is cold.”
“True enough, but then again my sister is fond of me,” he said carelessly. “She could never wed my murderer.”
Maybe so, but he would not admit it. That would instantly restore to the boy all the power he had just lost. “Your sister has too much sense to grieve long over a scapegrace such as you.”
The boy was not impressed. “Kill me and you’ll find out how wrong you are---” He broke off all of a sudden. “Watch out behind you.” His voice was a low, urgent whisper, a far cry from the mocking laugh of mere moments before.
“You cannot fool me with that simple trick...” he began, but the look in the boy’s eyes silenced him before he had finished the thought. He had never seen fear before – but he saw it now. Nobody could fake the look of genuine alarm in his eyes.
With a muffled curse he whirled around, his sword crossed over his body in a defensive position. He could only hope that the boy would not stab him the instant his back was turned.
Not a moment too soon. Before he had the time to blink, three men were upon him, swords drawn.
He’d been fighting the boy for some minutes already and he was growing weary already. This fight was different, though. He and the boy had been fighting for dominance, for control, for pride. He knew at the first rush by his new attackers that this time he was fighting for his life.
Three of them against one of him, and he was already tired. He didn’t like his odds. If he could not win through, he would at least sell his life as dearly as he could and take company with him into death.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy stoop and pick up the sword that he had dropped on the cobbles. His heart sank still further. He doubted the boy would be able to resist joining the battle against him – he had no sense of honor or fair play that would prevent him from finishing off a weakened enemy. What better way did the boy have of ensuring that he was kept out of the way? Miriame would never know what part her brother had played in his downfall.
The odds were now worse than ever. Four against one. Their advantage was insurmountable. He could not possibly win through.
He concentrated on the swords in front of him, avoiding injury where he could rather than risking his life in an attack. If he once started to bleed, he would lose his strength quickly and the fight would be over before it had even begun.
The air was thick with sweat and fear. His sweat. His fear. He wet his lips with his tongue, tasting the salt of effort on his face. Perspiration was soaking the back of his shirt now. It stuck to his back with a clammy wetness. Four against one. It was impossible odds. He could not even run.
His back was against the wall now – the same wall he had pinned Miriame’s brother to only minutes ago. Minutes? It seemed like a whole lifetime ago.
He hoped at least that Miriame’s brother would carry the news of his death to her and let her know that he had died bravely. She would mourn his passing at least, the death of the man who loved her better than anyone else could. He could not hope for anything more.
On he battled, more out of desperation than anything else. He would not give up his life just because all seemed lost. Heaven knows that he could not expect to be rescued – miracles did not happen to nobodies like him. He would die in the street, not even knowing who wanted him dead, or why.
Miriame grabbed the sword off the cobbles and hefted it in her hand. She knew those men. She’d seen them before – when they had tried to end Metin’s life some weeks ago.
She had not come to his aid then until he was nearly dead. She would do better this time. He would not survive such another wound.
The three of them were pressing him hard but he was still holding his own. She paused for a moment to admire his sword strokes. He was as agile as a cat. They could not get past his defenses, but neither could he take the risk of attacking them, and leaving himself vulnerable from another quarter. They knew that, and were wearing him down bit by bit until they could close in for the kill with the least danger to themselves.
There was little point in joining the fray by his side. Two against three was no guarantee of success. No – she would have to play her cards right and disable one of them immediately. Cowards that they were, two against two should have them turning tail and running.
She and Metin had been fighting just moments before – his attackers would not suspect she would come to his aid. She had surprise on her side.
Carefully she crept around behind them, taking care they did not notice her. She hefted her sword in her hand as she chose the biggest of them. She had no wish to kill another man, but there were ways of disabling a man without killing him.
Besides, Metin needed to know who his enemies were and what they wanted from him. Being attacked in the street twice in as nearly as many months was more than coincidence. Somebody badly wanted him dead.
She swiped a vicious blow at the legs of the tallest attacker. He half turned towards her with a look of surprise on his face and then fell to the cobbles with a groan.
Metin wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The light had grown so dim he could hardly see aught but the blades in front of him, flashing in the moonlight as they swept down at him. “Goodbye, Miriame,” he whispered into the night. He doubted that he could hold out for much longer.
One of his attackers suddenly fell to the cobbles with a cry of pain. He lifted his eyes and saw the boy, his sword bloodied, attacking them from behind.
His heart leaped with the sudden arrival of hope. The boy had come to his aid after all, despite their quarrel, and was making his presence felt.
He fought on with redoubled efforts, seeing at last a chance for life.
By God, the boy had repaid all that he had ever stolen from him with interest. He had saved his life when he thought all hope was gone.
The man on the ground groaned and writhed in pain, unable to get to his feet. He fought one of them while the boy entertained the other, pressing them both back into the middle of the street where they could maneuver more easily. The boy fought well – striking in and out again as quickly as a striking adder, getting under the other’s guard with a sneak attack whenever he could.
Faced with such odds as this, the two remaining attackers did not keep going for long. After trading a few more desultory blows and finding out that victory was not as assured as they had hoped, they took to their heels and ran, leaving their wounded companion behind.
Jean-Paul Metin leaned over and rested his hands on his knees, panting with effort. “I owe you my life.”
The boy knelt at the side of the wounded man. “Indeed you do. Twice over.”
“Don’t kill him,” Metin said quickly, fearing for the revenge the boy would take. “I want to question him first.”
The boy raised a white face towards him. “Much as he deserves it, I was not going to murder a wounded man in cold blood.” His voice was full of disgust at the idea. “I am disarming him – and patching up his leg so he does not faint from lack of blood before he can answer you.”
The wounded man spat on the ground by the boy’s feet. “The Devil take me if I answer a single damned question of yours. You’ve damn near killed me, the pair of you.”
Metin crouched down by the man’s head. “No doubt he will take you in good time.” He held his dagger uncomfortably close to the man’s neck and watched as his eyes bulged out with fear. “But your time may come a little earlier than you expect if you don’t start talking. Quickly.”
“You said as you wasn’t going to kill me.” The wounded man’s voice rose to a high-pitched whine and his fingers scrabbled at the ground as if to lift himself up and away from
the knife by the sheer force of his fear.
“My companion here seems to be a mite squeamish at the thought of slitting your throat as you lie here in the mud. Unluckily for you, I am made of much harder stuff. I have no such qualms.”
The stranger still had a little bravado left, despite his wound. “The Cardinal will kill you for this.”
“Ah, now we are getting somewhere.” At least he hoped he was. The Cardinal wanted to kill him? For the life of him, he couldn’t see why. “The Cardinal is behind this?”
The man closed his mouth and shut his eyes in a silent sulk.
He tickled the man’s neck with his knife. The man’s eyes flew wide open again. “The Cardinal is paying us to get rid of you,” he said hastily. “He wants some letters you’ve got and then he wants you dead.”
“What letters?”
“How should I know?”
He nudged the knife a little closer so that it pricked the skin.
“I didn’t ask, he didn’t tell me.” The wounded man gabbled in his haste to get the words out. “I swear, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know anything about them?”
“All I know is that we took the wrong ones off of you the last time and he was mad fair to bursting. Said if we didn’t get the right ones this time, we’d swing for it, the lot of us.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “The first time?”
The realization of what he had just confessed to passed over his face and he went gray with shock.
“You tried to kill me before. Why is that?” He held the knife up to the man’s neck once again. “I should kill you here and now and we would be fair and square, but I’m feeling in a generous mood. Tell me the whole story, all of it, nice and slow now and you might, just might, live to see the sun rise one more time.”
The man on the ground collapsed as if all the fight had suddenly gone out of him now. “The Cardinal sent us to get the letters you carried,” he confessed. “He didn’t care what happened to you after that so long as you didn’t give him any trouble about it. We jumped you on the street, half a dozen of us, just to make sure you didn’t get away. The Cardinal had promised us a right royal sum of money for it all – more than enough for us all to share. We could have stayed stinking drunk for a month of Sundays and have some left over to go a-whoring with the next day. But we got the wrong letters and you didn’t die when you were supposed to, damn your eyes, and we haven’t been paid so much as a sou.”